“Yes, I am. Sheriff Noble, you’re here, in a psychic’s house, plainly, because you can’t see any other options. I would say you are perhaps the most determined of all your colleagues to discount anything I may say or do. I ask you to be patient.”
Dix looked at him, stony-faced.
Wallace lightly laid a hand on Dix’s shoulder. “In the end, you will do what needs to be done, I imagine,” he said, and stepped back. And that made Dix think of Charlotte—he’d forgotten to call her.
Wallace smiled at Julia, who stood very close to Cheney. “The two of you,” he said, and shook his head. “Life continually surprises me.”
When Wallace’s eyes rested on Savich, he slowly nodded, but said nothing. He finally said, “I asked Bevlin to come over as well. As I told Julia, the more people here, the better for our efforts.”
“What efforts?” Cheney asked. “Come on, Wallace, enough dancing around. Tell us why you wanted us to come.”
“Very well. Both Bevlin and I are very concerned about Kathryn. Since you don’t know what this madman has done with her, we decided that a seance, of sorts, might help us locate her.
“I wanted all of you here because I need all of your strength, your focus, your concentration. I can assure you, I am very serious. I cannot guarantee success, that is, I cannot guarantee you that I will connect to Kathryn, but I am going to try.
“Before you arrived, Bevlin and I spoke about Kathryn’s vision—actually, I feared it would make the assassin hotfoot it right to her.”
“I did too,” Bevlin said.
Dix was still staring at them as stony-faced as before.
Sherlock said, “So I gather you believe her visions are authentic?”
“Oh yes,” Wallace said. “Well, for the most part. Sometimes Kathryn embroiders, and why not? Clients love detail, all the emotional stuff she dredges up, it pulls them in deeper. She says that the trappings, you know, the background, the stuff surrounding the dead person in her visions, aren’t usually very clear. It’s like there are filmy draperies blowing over everything but the person. But one thing I’m sure of—if she said she saw this guy, then she saw him. Do you agree, Bevlin?”
“I know Kathryn’s a really good performer, knows how to cuddle right up to her clients. She senses very quickly what they need and want, and colors in her lovely pictures once they give her the clues she needs. But there’ve been times I’ve had the feeling she is seeing beyond what’s there, really seeing.”
Wallace said, “The fact is, though—and I can see all of you are thinking it—anyone could have called up Agent Stone this morning, told him to beware the assassin, to watch for his car because the assassin was after him. It seems nothing more than common sense.”
Ruth held up her hand. “You said we’re here to help you conduct a séance, Mr. Tammerlane, that you want to try to contact Kathryn Golden.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Bevlin said, “The only problem we see is that if Kathryn is really scared, it might freeze her up, prevent our communicating with her. Then Wallace probably couldn’t reach her. On the other hand, and we must face this, she could already be dead. Then it would indeed be a séance.”
“Well, you’re a medium, aren’t you?” Dix said. “That should make things easier all around.”
Savich said, his eyes on Wallace Tammerlane’s elegant, aesthetic face, “No, she’s alive, no doubt at all in my mind.”
Wallace Tammerlane frowned at him, a dark brow arched. “Then I hope to connect to her. This isn’t a shot in the dark. A couple of years ago Kathryn and I experimented on sending each other messages telepathically. We wrote down what we believed we’d received from each other. We had quite a few hits. We were both pretty amazed.” Wallace looked closely at Savich. “When I look at you, Agent Savich, I see a man who has, in his turn, seen a few things in his young life. Do you believe in psychics, Agent?”
Savich said easily, smiling, “I don’t know that I believe in psychics or mediums, Mr. Tammerlane. However, I do believe that fear, that love, can sometimes come through to us, loud and clear.”
“Ah,” Wallace said slowly, staring at the big man he thought might be more powerful, perhaps even more dangerous than the man they were chasing, “so you’ve dealt with ghosts.”
Savich continued to smile. “I’m willing to have you give it a try, Mr. Tammerlane. All of us want you to try to find Ms. Golden. We will all do as you say.”
“All right. Good. Ogden!”
Ogden Poe glided into the living room, silent, an eyebrow raised.
“Dim the overhead, Ogden, you know I can’t work in this bright light. And pull the drapes tight. The rest of you, I must have utter quiet. See to the arrangements, Ogden.”
When the drapes were pulled, the lights dimmed, Ogden moved two sofas together. He motioned for them to sit close.
Wallace Tammerlane walked back to the huge wing chair facing the fireplace, turned its back to them and sat down. His voice floated over them. “I want all of you to hold hands, to connect your collective energy, to direct it toward me.”
Soon there was complete silence. Wallace began to hum. It sounded soft on the silent air, rose and fell, but was always there. Embers crackled in the fireplace.
Wallace said aloud, his voice deep and smooth, “Kathryn, are you there? Let me know if you can hear me. I know you must be afraid.”
A log cracked and fell apart, sparks flying upward. Shadows formed fantastic shapes on the walls. There was no sound. All of them settled in during the long moment of silence, and their hands remained clasped. Then Wallace said, “I’m thinking about you, Kathryn, trying to see you. Can you hear me, hear my mind? You must tell me where you are. You’ve done it before with me, do it now.”
More silence.
In those long moments, Savich felt the soft warm air settle over him, enfolding him like a blanket. He felt Sherlock’s hand in his, as soft and warm as the air, and he concentrated on Kathryn Golden, pictured the photo of her he’d seen on her dresser. A handsome woman, an intelligent face, eyes that saw, perhaps, things other people’s eyes didn’t. He remembered Samantha Barrister, long dead, yet he’d seen her, spoken to her, that long-ago night in the Poconos. But unlike Samantha Barrister, Kathryn Golden was alive. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he knew.
Was it possible for Kathryn Golden’s mind to connect to Wallace Tammerlane’s?
Kathryn was smart, he knew she was smart, knew she was so frightened that her fear was eating deep. Savich stilled, and felt a ripple of awareness touch his mind, veer away, circle back again. It was very gradual, this awareness sifting like a shadow through his mind. No, not a shadow now. Savich felt a sudden ferocious fear—frantic and violent. It burrowed into him, paralyzing and chaotic. Then he perceived that whatever it was touching him had begun to change. The fear softened, the cacophony waned, and then there were jagged lines. He saw them clearly, like the static on an old TV. Savich forced himself to focus again, to smooth away the jagged lines. They began to slow and lighten until they finally faded into nothing. Savich saw it clearly now, a movement, not from the corner of his eyes, but straight in front of his face. It was a pale and vague image, rippling in soft colors, then it slowly sharpened, and he saw her clearly even though she was in a dark place. A woman, her hair straggling around her face, her clothes ripped, her feet bare, tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth. He saw her head jerk up. It was Kathryn Golden. She was alert now, her every sense focused on him. Oh God, who are you? I feel you. He’s left me, but not for long. Help me. Dillon? Is that your name? Help me.
Savich focused on her face, the ugly bruise on her jaw where Makepeace had struck her. Without even wondering what he was doing, he thought, I will, stay calm.